


Never Forget Where You Hung Me

by NervousOtaku



Series: Neo-City Series [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Reflection, introduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 15:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15052103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku
Summary: Samkiel considers his place in the world under an old rowan tree.





	Never Forget Where You Hung Me

_The devil hung his mother from a rowan tree._

Samkiel stepped back, away from the house. He'd just finished pasting another pink carnation to the wall. Slips and snips of paper, with marker-drawn flowers, covered the front of the house.

An homage to the sweet woman inside, one left for every time he visited.

It was mid-autumn now. The sharp, bitter greens that covered the outer reaches of the city-state were becoming bright, vibrant reds and tangy oranges. The rowan-hybrid of the Atwood home bore golden leaves and crimson berries. The moss on the old swing was a sickly green.

Or maybe it was mold.

Samkiel moved to the fence, leaning against it as he considered the swing.

It was amazing the thing hadn't fallen apart. He remembered being small, completely brown and unbalanced, tumbling off. Remembered Rowan, scooping him up and running him inside. Miss Atwood checking scrapes that no longer existed and planting soft kisses on his palms and knees, brushing the dirt from his clothes.

But now he wore a mask and gloves of cream, with a map across his belly. His dark hair was turning pale at the roots, and his once-black eyes were somewhere in the range of plum. He no longer came to Miss Atwood with healing scrapes, but gaping wounds. She no longer brushed dirt from his clothes, but prepared showers to get rid of blood.

Back then, Samkiel Church had been a tiny boy in lab-issued scrubs, running away from tests and exercises. Now he was a super soldier, a genetic weapon infused with angelic DNA, a killing machine. He was the test-tube son of a fallen angel and a human woman. He was the property of the company running Neo-City.

Humming, Samkiel approached the swing and ran a hand up the rope nearest to him.

And then there was Rowan. Rowan Atwood, the bastard son of a former prostitute. Rowan, whose body wasn't slowly degrading due to incompatible genetics. Rowan, who didn't have a valley of scars on his elbow from stabilizer shots. Rowan, who was a normal company soldier until he was promoted to the phase-weapon force and made a squad-leader.

Rowan, who had up and deserted.

Samkiel felt the prickling discomfort and rage welling up in him again. In effort to soothe it, he sat on the old swing. His legs were too long, his hips too wide, and the wood, ropes, and branch above creaked ominously. But even if something broke, he wouldn't fall. Not anymore.

No, not now that he had super-human reflexes and senses. He was fast, he was strong, and with his trusty gladius Enkidu he could take down armies in two moves. He had angelic magics, healing and holy fire and a small, fragile force-field. His wounds healed in a snap, and his only scar was from the repeated stabilizer shots in his left elbow.

Not like Rowan. Rowan Atwood, all sun-tanned skin and pale scars and phase-weapon charges.

He tilted his head back to look up at the tree. It was only just morning. He had woken up long ago, showered and done some clean-up from last night. Miss Atwood wouldn't be up for a while yet. He would be gone before she woke up, but he wanted to stay a while longer.

In the heart of Neo-City, Samkiel fit in. His dyed hair, piercings, and flamboyant clothes were commonplace. People didn't even bat an eye at his vitiligo. Out here, on the outer reaches, where there were rows of houses with white picket fences, he stuck out like a sore thumb. But here he felt at ease. He wasn't... agitated.

When Rowan had still been with the company, his agitation wasn't as bad. It was almost non-existent, really. Rowan carried with him the peace and calm of the outer reaches. Of the Atwood home.

He pushed himself back and forth ever-so-slightly. Without thinking about it, he adjusted his grip on the ropes.

Yep, that was moss.

Samkiel didn't know if he'd always been this... well, agitated. He knew he'd always hated the labs. But the burning sense of right that he felt with the Atwoods, had it always burned so brightly?

Or was he just dwelling on it because now Rowan was trying to kill him?

As he stood up, the tree seemed to sigh in relief.

He should go now, before someone was sent to bring him back. He didn't want them watching this place, intruding on Miss Atwood's life. This was her home and his sanctuary.

The company dogs wouldn't touch her as long as he had say in it.

He was sure he'd be back soon, anyway.

_The devil hung his mother from a rowan tree._


End file.
